The Four Streets Saga

by Nadine Dorries

  The girls scattered when she opened the labour-room door and stepped into their midst. She noted that the electric fire had been switched on without permission and the detritus of breakfast lay scattered on the tray.

  ‘Get down to prayers, all of you, they started ten minutes ago,’ she spat at them in a voice that contained no hint of Christmas cheer.

  The girls flew out of the room and down the stairs towards the chapel. Aideen kept her eyes lowered and cheekily snatched the last piece of toast from the tray as she hurried past.

  The noise woke Kitty, who opened her eyes. Aware of the baby lying across her chest and the old rolled-up nappy Aideen had placed between her legs, she shuffled herself painfully up the bed, using just one elbow as she gripped the baby with her other hand. Sister Assumpta watched in stony silence and offered no assistance. The cramps sweeping across Kitty’s belly and her breasts, although nothing compared to the labour pains, were bad enough to make her wince as she attempted to move. Aideen said she had torn quite badly and she knew the warm feeling between her legs was blood oozing out onto the rags with the effort of moving.

  Sister Assumpta showed not the slightest concern, only irritation, as she glanced at the baby. The more attractive the baby was, the happier the new parents in America would be when he was handed over. This one would be leaving soon and he definitely was very attractive. She would not keep a baby born on Christmas morning in her convent for a day longer than necessary.

  ‘The snow won’t be here for long,’ she said crisply as she walked to the window and cast her glance over the carpet of glistening white lawn. ‘It will be just a day or two before the midwife is here and I am sure we all agree it is for the best if she takes you back to your family as soon as possible. You can stay up here in this room. There are no other deliveries due and I will have food sent up to you. You have no further work to do. Just stay on this floor and don’t come down into the Abbey until the midwfe arrives.’

  Despite her huge discomfort, the tiredness, the burning pain in her belly and the fact that her legs felt as though they wouldn’t work even if she tried to walk, Kitty felt a huge relief. It would be at least two days before Rosie would reach her. Two whole days with her baby. Two days of memories. Two days in which to smother him with a lifetime of love.

  Regardless of her best effort not to, Kitty’s face broke into a loving smile as she shuffled her baby up into her arms.

  Sister Assumpta turned away from the window and she saw the smile. She blinked. Within seconds, she had assessed the scene. Her face set, hard. In a voice devoid of emotion, she spoke.

  ‘I will send up a novice directly to collect the baby. He will live in the nursery now until his new parents land at Shannon airport.’

  Before Kitty could utter a word in protest, she glided out of the room on the wave of her own destruction.

  Kitty had only minutes with her baby as she heard the bells peal the end of prayers. There was no time to think or plan, no point in pleading. She knew the coldness, the evil, that resided in the heart of the Reverend Mother. Evil was no stranger to Kitty.

  ‘Wake up, little fella,’ she whispered urgently as her tears ran onto his downy hair. ‘Wake up.’

  And he did. He woke and scrunched up his newborn red face. Lifting both of his tiny clenched-up fists to his cheeks, he scratched his own delicate skin with a papery fingernail and began to whimper in complaint.

  Kitty held him out in front of her and shook him gently as she heard heavy footsteps ascend the stairs and knew this was it. Her last moments. Sister Assumpta had wasted no time.

  ‘I love you, do ye hear me?’ she whispered to him urgently. ‘Can ye hear me?’

  He opened his deep-blue eyes, level with her own, and, once again, stared deeply into hers. His perfect lips, tinged white with milk, opening and closing. He knew her. Her smell. The sound of her voice. He ceased to whimper. She had all of his attention. He knew her as he knew himself. The physical cord cut, but the bond remained intact.

  ‘I will find you one day, I will. I will find you,’ she whispered desperately between her sobs. Her salty tears fell onto his newborn face and his eyes narrowed as if in concern.

  Her lips were pressed against his soft and warm temple as she spoke, holding him tight. Repeating the words, ‘I will find you, I am Kitty. I am your mammy, only me, no one else,’ pressing them deep into his soul. Hiding them there. For ever.

  Acknowledgements

  I write this as I lay down the final words in book three of the trilogy, The Ballymara Road. If there is one thing I have learnt it is that writing a book is a team effort. I have many people to thank and should start at the beginning with Vicki Field and my agent, Piers Blofeld, as without their generous words of encouragement it is unlikely I would ever have written past the first chapter of the The Four Streets.

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my family and my three daughters, Philippa, Jennifer and Cassandra and my mother who between them have kept me grounded and in touch with the things that matter in a way only the women in my family could, and my wonderful partner, Chris Hammond, who has fed and soothed me and taken charge of every practical obstacle in order that nothing prevented me from writing in the few hours I had spare each week.

  To family in Ireland, with their wonderful ways and my aunty Jean and uncle Terry in Liverpool, I am prouder of all of you than you ever could be of me.

  My editor, Rosie De Courcy has never failed to inspire me with wonderful ideas of her own and in addition to mentoring me she deserves huge thanks for having had to put up with an author who knew absolutely nothing whatsoever about writing a book, or as it turned out, three books and for that, I also have to thank the publishing legend, Anthony Cheetham, who believed in me. Thank you to the entire staff at Head of Zeus books who have never once raised their eyebrows or rolled their eyes at me, the novice.

  My friends and their kind words were the balsam on the days things didn’t go so well. I couldn’t write this page without mentioning Alison and Alan, Lynn and Giles, Carol and Les and Anna, they are the people I drown my sorrows with and I know are always there for me, when and if I need them. And there are those who shared my joy as if it were their own and for that I would like to thank, Stewart Jackson MP, Douglas Carswell MP, Andrea Gordon, William Joce, Budge, Iain Dale and my late friend, Anne Rayment, who downloaded The Four Streets but couldn’t stay long enough to read it. Her husband, Andy has been a sage and wise mentor and I would especially like to mention my very close friend, the lovely Tim Montgomerie, for his endless love, support and kindness.

  I would also like to thank Darina Molloy at Mayo Library for going the extra mile and the staff at the Museum of Country Life in Eire.

  And last but definitely not least, the amazing characters who played a significant role in my extraordinary childhood.

  First published in the UK in 2014 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Nadine Dorries, 2014

  The moral right of Nadine Dorries to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB) 9781781857618

  ISBN (XTPB) 9781781850084

  ISBN (E) 9781781857601

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  Clerkenwell House

  45-47 Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1R 0HT

  www.headofzeus.com

  THE BALLYMARA ROAD
/>   Nadine Dorries

  The final gripping instalment of the bestselling Four Streets trilogy which began with The Four Streets and continued in Hide Her Name.

  On Christmas morning 1963 fifteen-year-old Kitty Doherty gives birth in a hostile Irish convent. Kitty knows her beautiful baby boy presents a huge danger to her family’s Catholic community back in Liverpool’s Four Streets.

  When her baby is adopted by a wealthy family in Chicago, Kitty considers the problem solved. But soon it’s obvious the baby is very sick and only his birth mother can save him.

  In Liverpool, things have begun to settle down. A charismatic new priest has arrived. The Dohertys are coping with the tragic consequences of Kitty’s pregnancy, and the police seem close to solving the double murder which rocked the Four Streets to the core. But now all that is about to be put as risk once again.

  Start Reading

  Table of Contents

  For Clifford

  1959–1991

  It’s a long way to Tipperary…

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Copyright

  1

  IT WAS EARLY on Christmas morning at St Vincent’s convent in Galway.

  ‘Frank, wake up, did ye hear that?’ Maggie O’Brien prodded her sleeping husband in the back, in an attempt to wake him. ‘Frank, ’tis someone knocking on the lodge gate. Wake up now.’

  Frank O’Brien was not in bed with his wife. Deep in the heart of a dream, he had just won first prize for his best onions at the Castlefeale show. All around him, people clapped and cheered as he stood at the front of the produce tent, holding high a bunch of onions so big, brown and sweetly perfect that it aroused naked envy in the eyes of the assembled gardeners and farmers.

  ‘Frank, will ye fecking wake up, ’tis the gate. Who can it be, knocking at this ungodly hour? ’Tis the middle of the night.’

  Frank woke with a start, as his ethereal body entered its earthly form with an unpleasant jolt. Startled, he begrudgingly opened one eye and viewed the world of the living. His first-prize elation faded within seconds. Blinking in the darkness, he rolled over to face his wife, but she had already leapt out of bed and nimbly hopped onto the wooden bench under the high, arched, mullioned window that looked down onto the main gate.

  As the bench rocked back and forth, precariously and noisily, on the uneven stone floor, Maggie reached up to draw the heavy curtains and, in doing so, exposed her plump and naked backside beneath her old and tattered nightdress.

  This is no ordinary morning, thought Frank. It feels special.

  ‘Ah, ’tis Christmas,’ he said, smiling as he focused his gaze on his wife’s round buttocks.

  Maggie was blissfully unaware of her husband’s burgeoning arousal as she attempted to peer out, carefully peeling the curtains back from the thick layer of ice that coated the inside of the window.

  ‘Merciful God, it has snowed heavily overnight. I don’t know how that car has made it here. Maybe it has trouble, that’s why they is knocking,’ Maggie hissed as she rubbed her eyes, blinded by the car’s headlights reflected in the window.

  ‘’Tis odd, indeed, to be knocking on a convent gate at this time,’ said Frank, swinging his legs out of bed to place his feet on the cold stone floor.

  All thoughts of an early romp between the sheets with his Maggie disappeared as she finally managed to draw the curtains, leaving behind thin threads of fabric stuck fast to the ice.

  Frank squinted as the car headlights flooded the small lodge with their brilliance. ‘Fecking hell, I can’t see a thing, ’tis so bright,’ he said furiously.

  Frank and Maggie worked as the gardener and cook at St Vincent’s convent, on the outskirts of Galway. It had been in existence for just a few years, having been hurriedly established by local Catholic dignitaries and busybodies to meet what they believed were declining moral standards amongst the local female population. It was five miles away from the more established Abbey, which was run by the same order of nuns and so full to the rafters with sin that it couldn’t possibly take any more.

  The convent chiefly comprised the large main house and an adjoining chapel, connected by a long passageway. A mother and baby home occupied the top floor and the girls – mothers and penitents alike – slept in the attics. Closest to the elements, they froze in winter and boiled in summer. A chapel house in the grounds was home to a retreat, used mainly by visitors from Dublin. An orphanage lay on the outskirts of the convent, almost entirely concealed from sight by an overgrown hedge of juniper trees.

  Maggie and Frank, who also doubled up as gatekeepers, lived in the tiny lodge at the entrance to the grounds, which was as near to the main house as any man was allowed after dark, unless he was a priest. Frank maintained the grounds and grew enough produce to ensure that the convent remained amply supplied. Maggie ran the kitchens with the help of the orphans, who, as she constantly grumbled, were used as nothing more than slaves by the sisters, even though they were paid for by the state.

  Maggie and Frank had grave misgivings about both the mother and baby home and the orphanage, but they were wise enough to keep their own counsel and, with it, the roof over their heads.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it is not yet five o’clock in the mornin’,’ said Frank, as he pulled on a donkey jacket over his nightshirt. Then, placing his cap on his head, he stepped out through the front door into the snow, making for the pedestrian gate set into the green iron railings attached to the lodge.

  ‘Have ye trouble?’ he asked, shining his torch into the face of the tall man outside the gate.

  Frank felt as though ice-cold water drizzled down his spine as the man’s eyes met his. He wore a trilby hat, not usually seen in the country and certainly never before on any visitor to the convent. It was pulled down low, obscuring his face, and his overcoat was buttoned up to the neck, with a scarf wrapped around his mouth.

  ‘No, no trouble. I think I am expected,’ the man replied through the scarf in a muffled English accent.

  ‘Not here,’ said Frank. ‘I have no message to expect ye and I’m the gatekeeper. Is it the Abbey ye want? If so, ’tis a further five miles towards Galway. Ye do know it’s Christmas morning, don’t ye? We aren’t expecting anyone at the retreat today.’

  As soon as Frank had spoken, he heard Sister Theresa’s voice behind him.

  ‘I will deal with this, thank you, Frank.’

  ‘Reverend Mother, what are ye doing out in the snow at this time in the mornin’?’

  Frank was incredulous. Life at the convent followed a very strict routine. No one ever caught sight of Sister Theresa before she began prayers at five-thirty and never, since the day Frank arrived, had she walked down to the gatehouse to meet a visitor. Not in fine weather, and very definitely not in the snow, at four in the morning.

  ‘That will be all, thank you, Frank,’ Sister Theresa replied curtly. ‘You can step back indoors now. I will deal with this.’

  Frank turned to look at the stranger once more. He didn’t like him. He said later to Maggie, ‘He was shifty-looking, all right, and something about him made my skin crawl.’

  ‘Well, who will lock the gate then, Reverend Mother? Sure, I can’t leave it wide open.’

  Frank was not as keen to move indoors as Sister Theresa would have liked. He did n
ot like disruption any more than she did.

  ‘Wait then, Frank, and lock the gate when we have finished.’ Sister Theresa, distracted, had already begun talking to the man directly. ‘It’s impossible. You can’t drive the car up,’ she said. ‘She will have to walk. There is no guarantee you would make it, either there or back again. The slope leading to the house is very steep.’

  The man appeared relieved. ‘I would rather just hand her over here, if it is all the same to you,’ he replied. ‘The bishop said he didn’t want her to be seen, so I hope everything is as discreet here as it should be.’

  Frank noted the sideways glance the man threw in his direction.

  ‘There is only one return ferry to Liverpool today and I need to be on it.’

  Frank watched as the man opened the back door of the car; to his amazement, a young woman stepped out. She was very well dressed, wearing a smart hat, and although the man had clearly woken her from sleep, she appeared quite content.

  She also recognized Sister Theresa. ‘Hello, Reverend Mother,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Are they here?’

  ‘Hello, Daisy,’ said Sister Theresa, who, it appeared to Frank, was less than pleased.

  The man lifted a small suitcase from the boot of the car and placed it on the frozen ground, next to the girl, saying, ‘I will be off now.’

  And Frank, with his mouth half open in shock, watched as he jumped into his car and drove away. Sister Theresa turned on her heel and marched up the driveway, with the young and tired woman following along behind.

  ‘Well now, it never broke anyone’s mouth to say a kind word and yet no one out there had one, not even for the young woman, although she looked as though she could do with one and as likely give one back, it being Christmas morning an’ all.’

  Frank made this speech at the back door as he removed his coat and cap, shaking snowflakes onto the floor, before he hung them both up to dry.